


Finding Friends and Charming Leaders

by GendrysNorthernWench



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon What Canon?, Families of Choice, Genderfluid Character, I'm Sorry Victor Hugo, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-24 00:24:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6135172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GendrysNorthernWench/pseuds/GendrysNorthernWench
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Les Amis College!AU mostly Grantaire centric</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finding Friends and Charming Leaders

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic in a significant while, so I'm rather rusty, feedback is appreciated, and I apologies so much because I have bastardised canon like you would not believe. I am not Victor Hugo, if I were, there'd be a lot less death and a lot more kisses, but sadly these characters aren't mine.
> 
> Trigger warning for anxiety attacks and homophobic slurs

Joly is the first of the Amis that Grantaire meets.

 

He's just finished his second to last class of the day -praise be to all things holy- when he bumps into the back of some Sophomore jock he vaguely knows from boxing.

 

There's a group of about six of them, and they're taunting someone on the floor. Naturally this shit will not fly and he yanks two of the jocks out the way so he's face to face with Dave Jones, notorious dick extraordinaire.

 

What he sees makes his blood boil.

 

“Oi! Back off, Jones.” Grantaire snarls, scowling darkly at the built blond boy.

 

“We're just having a little fun with the freak!” Jones leers, and his band of merry idiots laugh like he's made the funniest joke known to man.

 

The ginger boy on the floor flinches at the noise, prompting more cruel laughter and jeers.

 

“The lot of you FUCK OFF” Grantaire demands, taking a threatening step towards three of them.

 

Coincidentally blocking Floor Guy from view.

 

Jones and several of the others balk, they're part of the same boxing club and even though he's only a freshman, Grantaire has somewhat of a reputation for being absolutely terrifying in the ring.

 

“C'mon, the little fag's not worth our time” Jones declares arrogantly, striding away with his flock of followers.

 

And oh, Grantaire is going to make him pay for that slur next time, but right now, the terrified boy behind him is more important.

 

“Hey buddy, I'm R, it's okay, you're having a panic attack. D'you have any medication you take with you?” Grantaire asks gently, sitting in front of Floor Guy so they're level.

 

“I-in m-m-my bag” Floor Guy rasps into his knees, shoulders heaving between sobs.

 

It takes a minute to locate, clearly one of the jerks from before had managed to kick it out of reach and if he finds out who it was, Grantaire is going to fucking end them.

 

Once he's retrieved the -kinda- ridiculously heavy rucksack, and returned it to Floor Guy, who is still pretty deep into panic mode, Grantaire resumes his spot, keeping his voice calm and soft as he asks

“Is it okay if I go through your bag to find your medication?”

 

It takes a moment, but he gets a jerky nod of consent; luckily the first pocket he searches yields a bottle of Xanax, which he carefully unscrews the lid to before placing the opened bottle and an unopened can of Sprite he has in his bag on the floor between them.

 

Slowly, a pale, shaking hand wraps around the bottle and Grantaire watches carefully as the guy shakes out two pills into his hand before knocking them back, reaching for the sprite to wash them down with.

 

In the five or so minutes it takes for the tablets to work, Grantaire pulls out his sketchbook and just talks, low and calm about anything that comes to mind, casually sketching the whole time.

 

Eventually Floor Guy -and God Grantaire needs to find out this kids name- uncurls and his breathing evens out, the tension seeping out of his body, leaving him limp; like a puppet with its strings cut.

 

“Hey buddy, my name's Grantaire, d'you know where you are?” Grantaire questions, hoping his gentle enquiries won't set off another attack.

 

“J-Joly” Floor Guy breathes “Outside the humanities block”

 

Aha! Finally, a name! Plus the guy seems fairly lucid, which is always a plus.

 

“Nice to meet you Joly, is there someone you need to contact? Or anywhere safe I can take you?”

 

“My phone, th-they broke it” Joly whimpers, starting to curl in on himself again, and shit this is not what he intended to do. “I want Bousseut and Chetta”

 

He does mentally slap himself when he notices the shattered smart phone next to Joly, some art student he is.

 

“Okay, I'm sorry, I don't know who they are, but you can use my phone to ring them.” He offers, careful not to make any physical contact as he hands over the veritable brick of a phone he's just dug out of his pockets.

 

The phone is accepted with a grateful smile, thin fingers tap out a number and then Grantaire makes himself tune out, it's surprisingly easy. Mostly because it allows him a chance to properly study Joly, with his floppy ginger hair and pretty hazel eyes, rimmed red and framed by fair lashes clumped together by tears. Based on how long his legs are, Grantaire's willing to bet Joly is probably a good three or four inches taller than him; not that that's an especially difficult feat; being that he just brushes 5'10 on a good day.

 

 

“Thank you for letting me use your phone, my friends will be here soon, so uh, you can go? I mean, not that you're bad company but you probably have places to be and I don't want to inconvenience you. I mean you've done enough and it's really cool and-” Joly rambles, and he's holding out the phone and yes, he's supposed to take the phone, not stare like an idiot.

 

 

“If it's all the same, I think I'll stick around until your friends get here” He interrupts, because yes, it's the right thing to do, but also, this is probably the only bit of decent conversation he's had since he started and jeez, that's pathetic, considering term started a month ago.

 

“So, I'm Joly, I'm a a second year pre-med student and wow, you're really good at drawing!”

 

“What?” Grantaire's momentarily confused until he realises he's spent the last fifteen minutes or so sketching “Oh! Uh, thanks? I'm not that good honestly, like, I am a doodler at best” he protests, trying to cover up his awful scribbling.

 

“No no, it's really good! Honest.”

 

And dammit, Grantaire could almost believe him, Joly has one of the most honest and openly expressive faces he's ever seen; guy would be terrible at poker he thinks.

 

“So, pre-med? What're you doing near the humanities? I thought STEM and all that smart people stuff was on the west side of Campus?”

 

“Oh! I have Medical Ethics on the second floor, the teacher is an absolute dragon, but it's a really interesting class, even though I don't always agree with some of the materia-”

 

“JOLY! Joly, oh thank God, you're okay, it's okay baby” once again, Joly's interrupted, but this time, it's by an attractive dark skinned bald guy who near throws himself at Joly, frantically checking him over. A pretty desi girl is close behind, sinking to her knees next to the boys, her henna dyed hair a stunning contrast against her skin.

 

The three of them together are unbelievably beautiful and Grantaire has the strongest impulse to draw the trio, with their riot of limbs and anxious, affectionate motions. Feeling slightly voyeuristic at witnessing such an intimate scene, Grantaire focuses on the sketchpad in his lap.

 

He's only mildly surprised when he sees a sketch of Joly there, the proportions are slightly off, and his face looks too flat, but overall? It's not entirely terrible.

 

“Guys, I'm fine, honestly! And I made a new friend, say hi to Grantaire!” Joly's slightly breathless voice trills, and the smile is practically audible.

 

And excuse him, but what, friend? He's so stunned, it takes him a moment to understand that yes, he is being spoken to and paying attention is probably a good idea at this point.

 

“-ank you so much for looking after Joly, I'm Bossuet, it's so nice to meet you” the dark skinned boy, whose name is apparently Bossuet is sort of talking at him, voice warm and slightly frazzled.

 

“Apologies for these two, they can get a little over excited. I'm Musichetta, thank you for letting Joly use your phone and waiting with him, it's very kind of you.” her voice is husky and welcoming. “We should probably get him home before the Xanax knocks him out, but 'Suet has your number now, we'll make arrangements to meet up for coffee, yes?”

 

Musichetta is so matter of fact about telling a veritable stranger, they'll be going for coffee, Grantaire can't really help but nod.

 

Clearly, this is a lady who is used to getting her own way.

 

Èponine was going to be so proud, he had a conversation with people he wasn't trying to sleep with!

 

Watching the three walk off, shooting waves and final thanks behind them, Grantaire realised that a) he was seriously late for his final class of the day and b) that Professor Lamarque was going to fucking crucify him.

 

* * *

 

Other than twice weekly coffee dates with his favourite Golden Trio and Èponine -who had struck up an almost instant friendship with Musichetta- Grantaire doesn't actually interact with anyone else from Les Amis for over a month.

 

* * *

 

 

It's a Thursday when he -properly- meets Bahorel and Feuilly, and to be honest, his day's been an absolute shit show; anything that could possibly go wrong, has gone wrong.

 

So naturally, when he rolls into the Corinthe, his plans involve getting shit faced and possibly taking someone home for the night, the last thing on his mind is throwing himself into a bar fight with a bunch of drunken idiots.

 

He's happily positioned at the bar, in what is rapidly becoming his usual spot, paint stained fingers wrapped around his sixth glass of bourbon, flirting with a pretty enough girl with purple hair and thick eyeliner, it's surprisingly busy for mid-week; a group of about 8 obnoxiously drunk frat boys taking up a significant portion of the bar.

 

Feuilly, a red headed guy Grantaire is vague acquaintances with through his Life and Motion 2 class is a few chairs down, sat next to an unreasonably attractive guy with an easy smile and a physique to make Michaelangelo weep with joy.

 

Based on their body language Grantaire's willing to bet they're a couple; or at least well on the way to being so.

 

Mentally, Grantaire dubs him 'Sir-Abs-Alot'.

 

In hindsight, it should've been pretty obvious something was going to go down; interracial same sex couple and racist, drunken idiots? Never going to be a good mix.

 

Still, he's a little shocked when he hears one particularly drunk frat boy yelling about 'fucking fairies' and 'dirty foreigners', being that he's a bisexual son of an Israeli mother, his hackles are instantly raised and he shoots the boy an absolutely filthy glare.

 

Out of the corner of his eye he notices Feuilly wrap a hand around the wrist of his companion whose gone terrifyingly still, muscles bunched tight with what Grantaire assumes is rage and he hopes this is as bad as he's going to get.

 

Grantaire tends to forget his luck is just as bad as Bossuet's some days.

 

He's on drink number nine, and the purple haired girl is definitely giving out all the right signals for him to take her home for the night when he notices one of the frat boys grab Feuilly by the wrist as he walks past, yanking the other boy towards him harshly; leering like a particularly demented hyena.

 

Tossing a half hearted “Excuse me, sweetheart” over a broad shoulder, Grantaire springs for the guy who still has a hold of a struggling Feuilly; the ravenette's never had a particularly long fuse and watching some sleaze man-handle possibly one of the nicest human beings ever created?

 

Yeah, no.

 

It seems that Sir-Abs-Alot had the same idea, and being significantly closer -not to mention about six inches taller-, has already punched out grabby hands and is assessing the damage done to Feuilly's wrist by the time Grantaire's moved.

Sir-Abs-Alot is so caught up in making sure his (boy)friend is okay, he completely misses one of grabby hand's friend swinging an empty glass bottle at his head.

 

The thud bottle guy makes when Grantire rugby tackles him to the floor is so goddamn satisfying; the crunch his nose makes as Graintaire smashes a fist into it is even better.

 

After that, it's all a bit of a blur, there's fists flying and swearing and he ends up back to back with Sir-Abs-Alot and Feuilly, the three of them covering each others blind spots and generally causing absolute chaos and by the time the bouncers manage to separate everyone, the bar looks like a hurricane ripped through it.

 

Needless to say they're all unceremoniously thrown out on their collective asses; the bouncers preventing them from continuing their brawl in the streets and really, Grantaire should be pissed that his plans of drunkness and casual sex have been ruined, but the adrenaline is still high and he barks a laugh as the frat boys stumble away yelling threats and obscenities.

 

“Cheers for the assist pretty boy, you're on the boxing team, yeah? Name's Bahorel by the way.” Sir-Abs-Alot grins, coming to stand next to him.

 

' _Pretty boy? Really?'_ Grantaire thinks sarcastically ' _Has he actually seen himself before_?'

 

“Yeah man, nice to meet you, name's Grantaire, call me R though” Grantaire replies, grimacing as the movement aggravates his lip

 

“Thank you, Grantaire. I'm sorry you got hurt because of me.” Feuilly says from behind them both, accented voice soft and almost guilty sounding.

 

“Nah, it's fine, wasn't about to sit on my ass and watch that gorilla treat you like a rag doll. Is your wrist okay?” he's turned to reassure Feuilly and shit, his side is burning and his t-shirt feels kinda wet and sticky when he presses his hand against it.

 

“Yeah, ice and rest and it'll be fine” Feuilly reassures, wrapping a pale arm around Bahorel's waist

 

“You okay man? You look really pale” Bahorel's voice sounds a little distant and without the adrenaline, the pain in his side is significantly worse and when he pulls his hand away from his side, it's slick with blood.

 

“I think one of the little shits stabbed me” he giggles and his voice is slurred, the New Orleans drawl he tries to hide makes a stunning reappearance and his head is starting to spin as his vision goes a little fuzzy at the edges, he vaguely hears someone yelling for help when his knees hit the pavement.

 

The last thing he remembers is Feuilly telling him to stay awake before everything goes black.

 

 

* * *

 

Consciousness returned slowly to Grantaire, the repetitive beeping and astringent scent of antiseptic burning his noise. His eyelids felt like concrete and when he finally managed to open them a little, the fluorescent lights overhead burned and he hissed in pain.

 

“Mon dieu, did anyone catch the numberplate of that bus” he groaned, struggling to sit up.

 

“Stay still, idiot. You'll rip your stitches. Èponine's already mad at you.” a voice that sounded suspiciously like Gavroche warns, and when Grantaire cracks open an eye, the almost white blonde head of hair by his bedside confirms his suspicion.

 

“'Taire! You're awake!” Bossuet yelps, drawn to the room by the sound of Gavroche talking “Let me go get the doctor! Everyone's going to be so relieved!”

 

And with that the bald man is off, yelling for Joly and Musichetta and Èponine and Feuilly and Bahorel.

 

The room he's in is small and smells like cleaning products; three unbelievably uncomfortable looking chairs scattered about.

 

Within moments there's two nurses and a doctor in the room, flashing a light in Grantaire's eyes and asking him what feels like a hundred questions, poking and prodding and holy shit his head is pounding.

 

Clearly, they've decided that he's not going to die anytime soon, and the nurse is adding something to the IV he hadn't noticed until now and suddenly the pain in his head is significantly better.

 

“You're free to see your friend, try not to excite him too much, last thing he needs is to pull his stitches.” the doctor warns an unseen person before heading off to do whatever it is doctors do when they aren't doctoring

“Thank you, Doctor French” Joly mutters gratefully.

 

The nurses scribble something on the chart by his bed and then they also leave, and his friends appear at the bottom of his bed.

 

“God, you look like shit, pretty boy.” Bahorel laughs from the doorway.

 

“Looked in the mirror lately sunshine?” Is Grantaire's pithy retort.

 

Èponine is front and centre and she looks angry. Very, very angry.

 

“You jackass! What the hell did you think you were doing?! Getting yourself stabbed, fucking STABBED Grantaire! DO YOU KNOW WHAT IT IS LIKE GETTING A CALL FROM COMPLETE STRANGERS TELLING YOU THAT YOUR ABSOLUTE PRICK OF A BROTHER HAS BEEN STABBED?! YOU COULD HAVE DIED, IF BAHOREL AND FEUILLY HADN'T DRAGGED YOUR DUMB ASS TO THE HOSPITAL!” Èponine is screaming, and shit, he's more than a little terrified right now, she gets angry, sure, but not like this, “You nearly died 'Aire, you tried to leave me. Leave us.” something in her voice breaks and she practically flings herself at him.

 

The pain caused by her impact is nothing compared to the pain in his chest, he can feel her shuddering against him, Gavroche's eyes look unusually red and when he looks at the rest of his friends, they all look exhausted and strung out and Joly may as well be Casper the friendly ghost he's so pale.

 

Grantaire's not used to having so many people concerned for him, and it makes the knot in his stomach twist harder.

 

He threads his fingers through Èponine's hair like he did when they were kids, and holds her as she fights for composure. His other arm reaches out and hauls Gavroche up onto the bed, positioning him against his uninjured side and the usually precocious child burrows his head against Grantaire's shoulder, and he's distinctly reminded of sleepy toddler Gavroche doing something similar.

 

“So, guys, how's it hanging?” He asks weakly, trying to lighten the mood.

 

Musichetta and Bahorel scowl at him, clearly unamused and Feuilly and Joly look about two seconds from joining Èponine and Gavroche and jeez, he feels bad.

 

“You have a plastic tube up your dick, I think we should be asking you that question” Bossuet comments with a grin, and the entire room cracks up; even if a few of the chuckles are distinctly watery.

 

“Cute, Boss, real cute.” Musichetta mutters, nudging him gently with her elbow.

 

“So, when exactly do I get out of here, Dr. Joly?”

 

“You're joking, right?! You've been unconscious for two days; R you were stabbed in the side with a switch blade, they punctured your liver. You're not going anywhere anytime soon. And there'll be no boxing or fencing or partying whilst you recover, understood?.” Joly scolded, face moulded into a severe frown.

 

Well, that explains why everyone looks so exhausted, two days is a pretty long time to be hanging about a hospital.

 

“Don't think this gets you out of me kicking your arse, pretty boy.” Bahorel joked, “you scared the shit out of Feuilly, fainting like that.”

 

“Oh piss off, I wasn't the one who started screaming blue murder 'Rel.” Feuilly retorted, whacking his friend/boyfriend in the shoulder.

 

“I think if anyone's going to be kicking his ass, it should be Èponine and I. Perfectly lovely girls night we're having, and then boom, interrupted by the most dramatic phone call ever, telling us you're in the hospital.” Musichetta sniffed haughtily, and from his chest Grantaire heard a weak 'damn straight' and couldn't stop himself from snorting.

 

Which proved to be a terrible idea as it sends pain shooting through his abdomen, clearly he made some sort of face, because the mood instantly drops again and Joly moves to fuss with his IV, pushing a little button twice; Grantaire assumes it's some kind of pain killer, because shortly after he feels warm and the room spins a little.

 

“Wait, if I was stabbed in the side, shite is my tattoo okay?!” The thought of his tattoo being destroyed sends the heart monitor beeping frantically as his heart rate goes through the roof.

“Woah, it's okay, your ink's safe, I promise” Feuilly reassures gently “We removed your shirt so we could actually see how bad it was, it missed the bottom of your tattoo by a couple inches”

 

Clearly his moment of panic had set off some sort of alert with the nurses desk as a petite blonde nurse sticks her head around the door, tutting and informing the room at large that visiting hours are over and they need to leave.

 

The tension that had leaked from his body at Feuilly's words is rapidly returning, he despises hospitals and the only thing worse than being in hospital was being in hospital, alone.

 

His vision starts to swim and he thinks he's hyperventilating, he can't be alone in this place, he just _can't._

 

“Hey, hey, breathe 'Aire, that's it, breathe for me” Èponine is coaching him, and he can smell the perfume she wears, feels Gavroche's little hand petting his hair. “Gav and I will stay with you, we're family, they can't kick us out.”

 

It's a little amazing how she can go from comforting to fierce in less than a heartbeat.

 

“Ahh, fierce as ever, ma petite lionne” a heavily accented voice comments from the doorway   
“Excuse me, but who the fuck are you?” Musichetta growls defensively

 

“Monty, you're here!” Gavroche's voice is high with excitement as he springs from the hospital bed at the new comer who catches him with skill borne from years of practice, grunting theatrically.

 

“Ettienne Montparnasse, at your service” the man in the doorway is lean; with a riot of dark curls and the same almond shaped eyes as Grantaire, although his are a deep amber colour, rather than the bottle green of the other boy, the two are undeniably related.

 

“'Nasse, what're you doing here? I thought you were in Chicago” Grantaire's voice is confused and a little weary, but the smile that lights his face is nothing short of radiant.

 

“When a man gets a call at one in the morning from a raging lioness, it is always best to come running, no?”

 

Montparnasse laughs when Èponine flips him the bird over her shoulder.

 

With proper introductions made; along with a few off colour jokes courtesy of Bahorel, a different nurse than the one from before comes in to kick anyone not blood related out.

 

All in all, it still takes about fifteen minutes to get everyone to leave; although Èponine doesn't appear to be entirely comfortable with the idea.

 

Once the others are gone, the charming, devil may care attitude of Montparnasse drops, and in its wake is a half broken, terrified boy running on little to no sleep and expensive coffee who clears the distance between himself and his brother in two long strides. The arms that wrap around Grantaire's shoulders are a little too tight to be comfortable and the kiss placed on his forehead is nothing short of fierce, but the scent of smoke and pine and spice invading his nose and the soft brush of expensive fabric against his cheek make him feel safe and loved.

 

He might not see his brother all that often and they can argue for days, but Montparnasse will always be home in Grantaire's mind.

 

“Tell me who did this 'Bastian, tell me and I swear they will not see the sun rise”

 

 

“You should sleep, 'Nasse, you look sleepy” Grantaire's voice is soft and spacey -most likely owing to the exciting cocktail of drugs in his blood-, and the fist that he raises to rub against tired eyes remind Montparnasse sharply of a tiny Grantaire sneaking into his room late at night in footsie pyjamas, clutching his forest green blanket in a chubby fist.

 

The fact his brother is evading his question doesn't escape Montparnasse's notice, but he'll let it slide for now.

 

After all, he has the ginger boy and his dark haired companion to interrogate.

 

“Maybe later, little brother” Montparnasse whispers in reply, seating himself upon the bed so his thigh is pressed against his brother's uninjured side “Perhaps when you stop trying to die on me?” the warmth radiating from his side is a tangible reminder that he won't be burying anyone today.

 

“Tis only a flesh wound, will take more than a little stab to shuffle me off my mortal coil”

 

“Urgh, at least quote correctly if you're going to quote at all.” Montparnasse complained “Knew letting you and Èponine watch that was going to bite me in the ass”

 

“M'sorry you hadta leave work 'cuz of me, sh-shoulda been more carefuuuuul” Grantaire whines and he looks close to tears himself; pain medication has always made him a bit weepy.

 

“Meh, the business world can survive without me for a few days, but please, do not make this a regular habit chèr. I fear my heart will not last another scare like this.” Montparnasse mutters softly, extending a hand to brush through his little brothers mane of ink dark curls affectionately

 

“Dun say tha, you're Ettienne Montparnasse and ye shall out live us allll”

 

“Go to sleep, little star, we'll talk more in the morning”

 

“Only if you stay, 'Nasse. We miss you” Grantaire pleads gently, already half asleep, shuffling as much as his injured body will allow, in order to make space.

 

“For you, little star, I would stay forever” Montparnasse promises,

 

When the nurse who works graveyard comes in to check on her patient, she finds said patient curled into the chest of his brother, looking for all the world like a pair of children.

* * *

 

If the brothers wake up the next day with an extra blanket covering them both, well, no one really has to know.

 

 


End file.
